Sisters
by Edward Carson
Summary: Elsie hasn't visited her sister Becky in some time. When Cora offers her the opportunity to do so, Elsie must address her conflicting feelings for Becky. Meanwhile, Cora gets to exercise a little noblesse oblige in her housekeeper's favour. Not my usual bailiwick..., but Becky as one-time-plot-device struck me as a little callous.
1. Chapter 1: An Unexpected Invitation

**Chapter 1. An Unexpected Invitation**

 **A Diverting Detail**

"Did you know that Mrs. Hughes has a sister?"

Robert's question startled Cora. She stared at him as he shrugged his way out of his dressing gown, folded it over a nearby chair, and then approached the bed.

"Mrs. Hughes has a sister," she repeated, trying to digest the words.

"I gather from that that you did not." Robert pulled back the bedcovers and crawled in beside her, slightly amused by the look on Cora's face. He was surprised that she was surprised. His own ignorance in this matter was understandable. The only staff member with whose private life Robert was intimately acquainted was Carson, and that came out of their long history at Downton, not curiosity. He did not know and did not want to know the details of anyone else's world. Even Bates remained a mystery in many ways. But Cora took more of an interest in the people who surrounded her, no matter what their role in the family's life. She was not intrusive. Nor did she seek out information for malicious or prurient purposes. It was only that she genuinely liked people, no matter who they were. Robert fondly dismissed this benign social aberration as a manifestation of her American-ness.

"No, I didn't," she admitted. "How on earth did you pry that detail out of Carson?" She asked this with assurance. There was no other source from whom Robert could have secured this information.

"I asked. It was raining on Monday morning, so we stayed in and read the papers." Robert was alluding to his now-routine practice of opening the week with a brisk morning walk with his retired butler and their dogs. "While he was making the tea, I noticed a new - old - photograph on the mantle. Two little girls. Mrs. Hughes and her sister."

"Is she still alive?"

Robert nodded. "Oh, yes. She lives in Lytham-St.-Anne's."

Cora frowned thoughtfully. "Really? I wonder that she didn't come to their wedding, then."

Robert was reaching for his book, not terribly interested in dwelling on the subject."Maybe they don't get on."

This was unlikely, Cora thought, given that Mrs. Hughes had seen fit to put a photograph of her sister on display in her home. She could not imagine either Mary or Edith ever memorializing the other in such a fashion. Sybil, perhaps, but not each other. Well! What they didn't know about the staff! It was a diverting detail about the long-time housekeeper. Cora filed it away and her mind drifted from it.

 **An Unsettling Opportunity**

It is a commonplace experience that a name or fact or incident about which one has never heard is introduced and then, shortly thereafter, suddenly reappears. Mrs. Hughes had worked for the Crawleys for thirty years and Cora had not known of her sister, nor, for that matter, had much reason to note the existence of Lytham-St.-Anne's beyond a dot on a map. And yet just two weeks after the revelation of the first, that coastal retreat came to her attention in another context. Cora saw it as an opportunity.

Her Ladyship did not often venture below stairs to converse with Mrs. Hughes. She met weekly in the kitchen with Mrs. Patmore to discuss the menus because the cook was a denizen of downstairs. As the housekeeper, however, Mrs. Hughes had an upstairs presence, if an invisible one, supervising the cleaning, tidying, and freshening up of the rooms the family inhabited. She, too, consulted weekly with the lady of the house, but they did so in Her Ladyship's sitting room. It was, then, something of a novelty for Lady Grantham to come to Mrs. Hughes instead of the other way around. Thus it gave Mrs. Hughes pause when she looked up from her desk one afternoon to find Her Ladyship at her door.

"My lady. Please come in." Mrs. Hughes got to her feet as she spoke. She could not sit in Her Ladyship's presence, but she gestured to one of the chairs by the small sidetable where she and Mr. Carson had, in the past, often shared a conversation and a nightcap. They no longer did this, what with the more congenial and private quarters of their own cottage awaiting them.

Cora politely waved away the offer and came to stand by the housekeeper. "Mrs. Hughes, I've come to you with a rather irregular invitation. I may be overstepping the mark, but I think I'd like to extend the offer anyway."

Mrs. Hughes was a curious person. Her husband was given to muttering things about curiosity and cats when she asked him leading questions, a rather feeble defense against her deft probes. She did not have to rely entirely on verbal exchanges, having developed a formidable capacity for observation, but a careful query and an attentive ear were almost always rewarding. Although Her Ladyship's statement put her on the alert, it also piqued her interest. She wondered if this were something to do with Mr. Carson. There was little else beyond the walls of Downton Abbey where their concerns overlapped. "Go on, my lady."

Cora clasped her hands before her in the manner of an appeal. "I'll come to the point, Mrs. Hughes. The boards of a number of northern hospitals are gathering for a discussion of the proposed health reforms under consideration by Mr. Baldwin's government, and I've been chosen as the representative for the York region."

Even as she listened to Her Ladyship's words, Mrs. Hughes heard in the other's tone a note of pride. Every time Her Ladyship spoke about the hospital she sounded almost like a different person, _herself_ , someone who had spent too long in the shadows and delighted in coming out into the daylight. It wasn't an obnoxious or self-absorbed realization, but rather a magical revelation. As someone who thought women largely underrated, Mrs. Hughes quietly applauded Her Ladyship's emergence.

"I was wondering if perhaps you might like to accompany me on this journey in Baxter's place."

It _was_ an odd request and Mrs. Hughes was taken aback by it. She frowned thoughtfully, trying to divine what lay behind such a departure from convention. What it something about Baxter that she did not know? She could not imagine there was anything here connected to herself. As she pondered this, she responded with a slight deflection.

"I was unaware that Miss Baxter was indisposed, my lady. I've heard nothing of that." She was a little put out. Miss Baxter ought to have informed the housekeeper of anything that obstructed the pursuit of her duties.

"That's not it," Cora said quickly. "Baxter is perfectly fine. I haven't even spoken of this to her. I thought it best to ask you first. It's only... That is..." She paused, steeled herself to speak, and then said, "The meeting is to be held in Lytham-St.-Anne's and I've only just learned that you have a sister there. In fact," and she gave a brief, awkward little laugh, "I've only just learned that you had a sister... And I know that you don't get to see her very often. You hardly take any time away at all. I thought I would offer you an opportunity to visit her."

The expression on Mrs. Hughes's face did not change, but Her Ladyship's invocation of the place and of her sister caused her stomach to clench. "May I ask how you heard of my sister, my lady?" she asked lightly.

Her tone had not changed, but Cora was discomfited all the same. Sometimes her impulse to be helpful cut too closely to the fine line of discretion that kept upstairs and downstairs in balance. It pained her that this was so, especially when her intentions were for the good, but she was also resigned to the reality of it.

"Carson mentioned something about her to His Lordship and he made a passing reference to me. He thought I already knew, and I was sorry to realize that I didn't. I really didn't think anything of the information at the time. It was only the convention that brought it to mind." She smiled apologetically. "I hope I haven't offended you, Mrs. Hughes. I can see that I've startled you. I don't mean to pry."

"Of course not, my lady," Mrs. Hughes said automatically, but sincerely for all that. She had always thought Her Ladyship had a good heart. Her mind was racing. What, if anything, about Becky had her husband imparted to His Lordship? Her Ladyship's words and open manner suggested that it was little more than the fact of her existence and where she lived. Mrs. Hughes pushed thoughts of her husband out of her mind. She'd speak to him later. More important in the moment was Her Ladyship's offer.

She hadn't seen Becky in a long time, more than two years. She thought of her sister often and prayed for her every night and diligently wrote a cheque for her care at regular intervals. But visiting her was a complex undertaking on a number of levels. The logistics of arranging for time off and of the journey to the west coast were challenges in themselves. The expense had put her off in the past. The bulk of her income went to paying for Becky's care, leaving precious little for her own needs and wants, before adding the luxury of a trip to, let alone accommodation in the charming seaside town where many things were dear. Things were different now, of course, Mr. Carson had insisted on their sharing all expenses and so the financial constraints had disappeared. But she had not taken advantage of her new stability to visit her sister, even with encouragement from her husband. There was much more to it all than that.

There was, after all, also Becky with whom to contend, and she was a challenge - an emotional challenge - for which Mrs. Hughes was not always prepared. Seeing her sister always reawakened anxiety over her decision to leave Becky's immediate care in the hands of strangers - for all that they were capable strangers - and to lead her own life. This weighed on her conscience and prompted internal debates of which even her husband was largely - though not entirely - unaware. She loved Becky, accepted responsibility for Becky, and was capable of fiercely defending Becky. But her sister was not easy. A poor excuse for inattentiveness.

Since her engagement and marriage, Mrs. Hughes had made excuses. They'd had their own affairs to plan. She had to learn to live with her husband. They'd already taken a holiday - at the family's expense - for their honeymoon, and she could only prevail upon the Crawleys' good nature so much. Even as she made these arguments in her mind, she recognized them as feeble. But she hadn't overruled them. Now, however, the question was before her, the obstacles of cost and convenience and opportunity swept away, and she must embrace or reject the offer entirely in terms of whether or not she wanted to see her sister.

Cora was, of course, ignorant of the details of the internal turmoil her invitation had ignited, but she recognized hesitation when she encountered it and read into it her own apprehensions. "Dear Mrs. Hughes, please forgive me if I have transgressed. I only wanted to give you a chance to see your sister. Don't feel you must agree or not because I've raised the possibility."

In that moment Cora felt more than she ever had the strange incongruity of physical proximity to the staff - specifically here to Mrs. Hughes - and yet the personal distance from them. How could she have so little real awareness of who this person really was? The upstairs/downstairs dynamic might be a social norm, but it was an emotional aberration. Bizarrely Cora realized that she knew Carson better - though this was because Robert knew him so well - than she did the housekeeper with whom she worked so closely.

Habit forced Mrs. Hughes to see through the disturbance in her own mind to the discomfort of Her Ladyship and she moved to alleviate the other's unease. It was a reflexive impulse of service. "And I would serve as your lady's maid for this trip, my lady?"

"Yes," Cora responded eagerly. "I know it's not your job, but it seemed like a practical fit."

Practical. Mrs. Hughes almost smiled at that. Mr. Carson would be deeply disturbed by the mere suggestion of fluidity between positions and protest this demotion of the housekeeper, even if it was only a temporary thing. He recoiled from the rationalization of _practical_ as an excuse to avoid doing things properly. But Mrs. Hughes was fundamentally a practical person herself. She was as capable of guarding her prerogatives as Mr. Carson, but she was not philosophically opposed to the ends justifying the means.

"There's no pressing need for you to answer right away, Mrs. Hughes. I'll leave it with you and say no more about it. You can let me know of your decision."

"I can tell you right now, my lady." The suddenness of her assurance surprised Mrs. Hughes. "If it's only a matter of a couple of days, then I _would_ like to accept. It would be...nice...to see my sister again. I thank you."

A sense of relief swept over Cora. She did not like to make anyone uncomfortable. "We'll drive down the night before," she said, her words spilling over each other, a reaction to the dissipation of tension. "I'll be attending meetings all day, so I won't be changing except for dinner that night. When I don't need you to dress me, your time will be your own. It's only one day but..."

Mrs. Hughes decided to put the best face she could on it all and favoured Her Ladyship with her official smile. "I'm glad to do it, my lady. It serves your purposes as well as my own. One day in Lytham St.-Anne's will be lovely."

"I hope Carson won't be too inconvenienced," Cora added with a smile. "He'll miss you."

Mrs. Hughes was less concerned about this. "He'll get along." In truth, she would miss him as much as he would her. They liked being married and cherished every moment they had together. But she'd committed herself now to seeing Becky and she wouldn't have Mr. Carson come along even if Her Ladyship had suggested it. No, she did not want him in Lytham-St.-Anne's.

When Her Ladyship had gone, Mrs. Hughes resumed her seat and did nothing at all for a long moment. Well, she was in for it now. She took a deep breath and then picked up her pen. She had a letter to write.


	2. Chapter 2: The Best Laid Plans

**SISTERS**

 **DISCLAIMER:** I do not own, nor do I profit in any way from the use of, the characters, settings, implied plot lines, or ideas drawn from _Downton Abbey_ that are reflected in the following story. These belong to Julian Fellowes.

 **Chapter 2 The Best Laid Plans**

 **The Secret is Safe**

"What did you tell His Lordship about Becky?"

She asked him this the evening of the day Her Ladyship had brought up the idea of going to Lytham St. Anne's. They were in the sitting room. He was already on the sofa with his glass of sherry. Elsie had taken her sherry with her to the mantle where there was a framed photograph of two children sitting on a doorstep. She considered it for a moment before turning to pose her question.

The look he gave her was the one he wore when he thought she was barmy. The left side of his face crinkled up. "I didn't tell His Lordship _anything_ about Becky," he said. He'd been reaching for the newspaper on the sidetable, but this query arrested his movement.

For all that she knew this not to be accurate, she believed he had sincerely forgotten it. He did not look guilty and she knew his guilty look from experience. He had not often attempted to lie to her, and had only ever done so in order to spare her feelings, but he'd never been able to carry it off. Her Mr. Carson was a hopeless liar.

"It was one rainy morning when you stayed in and read the papers," she prodded him, smoothly setting aside what he had said. "He asked about the photograph." She glanced at the picture - the Hughes sisters, Becky, the younger, her shy smile and slightly distracted expression a contrast to her older sister's bright-eyed alertness and deliberate pose for the camera. The untrained eye would not have discerned Becky's difference, but to Elsie, who knew her sister and the circumstances of the picture - how long it had taken to settle Becky and to coax even that half-hearted smile from her - her condition was obvious.

A light dawned in Charlie's eyes. "He _did_ ," he conceded, remembering. "The papers had got a bit wet on my way back from the village and he was hanging _The Gazette_ by the grate while I made the tea." He nodded and then recalled her initial question. "He asked who the two little girls were and I told him it was you and your sister. I could hardly refuse to answer," he said soberly, and a little defensively, although her expression had not changed. "And I said she lived in Lytham St. Anne's. That was it. I didn't even tell him her name," he added, somewhat truculently. "Why do you ask?"

So she told him about Her Ladyship's invitation.

"And you're going?" he asked, in a guarded way.

"I am. Yes."

He nodded, looked at her for a moment with an almost uncertain air, and then picked up the newspaper and opened it. She watched him for a minute, saw how his eyes stared fixedly at the paper, not really seeing the newsprint.

She thought she knew why. They'd had it out over Becky and come to a sort of truce. But it had not satisfied him. She was still reluctant and he was frustrated, seeing it somehow as a failure in their marriage. And now this. He had encouraged her several times to visit Becky, with or without him, and she had found an excuse every time not to go. And now Her Ladyship issued a casual invitation and she was prepared to pack her bags. At the bottom of it he was probably pleased that she was doing so, but he could hardly help but be hurt that Her Ladyship had been successful with very little effort where he had failed.

Elsie could recognize this and also ignore it. Their conflict over Becky emerged from her own well-grounded apprehensions, cultivated over a lifetime of shielding Becky, their parents, and herself from outside criticism. Such defenses could not be dismantled just because he desired it.

She put his ongoing disquiet out of her mind. The important thing, in this moment, was his reassurance of how little Her Ladyship knew about Becky. She could now accompany Her Ladyship with a relatively easy heart. Visiting Becky would relieve her troubled conscience. The circumstances were such that there was no question of Charlie accompanying her, so she was saved that battle. And Her Ladyship was ignorant of the situation and would be preoccupied with her own work, leaving Elsie to keep her own business to herself. The worlds she had worked so hard to keep apart would remain so.

 **Best Laid Plans**

Lady Grantham tactfully made no further reference as to why Mrs. Hughes was accompanying her. Miss Baxter had to be informed, of course, but she asked no bothersome questions. Miss Baxter's own personal history had fostered in her the virtue of discretion. She rarely sought more information than she was given.

They travelled to Lytham St. Anne's on a Tuesday, settling into accommodations in the hotel where Her Ladyship's conference was to take place. Her Ladyship's room was comfortably appointed. Mrs. Hughes's was rather more utilitarian, indeed hardly distinguishable from the room she had occupied for more than two decades at Downton in terms of its plainness. She really only noticed because she had seen, on her honeymoon in Scarborough when they had stayed in the finest room in the place, how the other half lived. How the top one percent lived, rather.

She had not acted as a lady's maid in a while, not since Edna Braithwaite's abrupt departure had left them in a lurch and that was a few years ago. But she knew how things worked, and Her Ladyship was easy to please, and Miss Baxter had packed accordingly. She prepared Her Ladyship for a dinner engagement and then went out for her own supper at a modest eatery she knew from previous visits. It was an enjoyable diversion.

In the morning, Her Ladyship got an early start and once Elsie had buttoned her up and done her hair, and then tidied the room, there were no further obligations on her until Her Ladyship returned at the end of the day to dress for dinner. Elsie would have the whole day with Becky and the world which she was about to enter could continue to follow its own uninterrupted orbit.

She enjoyed the walk to the residence where Becky lived. She loved the sea air and the change of pace and the coastal scenery. As much as she liked Yorkshire, she had no specific attachment to the region. It was where she had ended up and it was congenial enough. Her circumstances there - the job, the warm associations with the people there, and, of course now, Mr. Carson - were what made it meaningful to her.

Lytham St. Anne's was a pretty place and Elsie might have liked it very much had it not been so closely associated with her sister and all that came with her. It was not that she resented Becky or chafed under the burden, but only that she could never appreciate the picturesque coastal town on its own merits.

As she walked along, her spirits began to lift. She was looking forward to seeing Becky. Taken on her own, divorced from the outside world that obscured appreciation for the individual behind walls of expectations and judgments, Becky was a bit of a character, and Elsie loved her for that. Becky recognized no facades. She was unimpressed with insincerity, which she spotted unerringly. This was a characteristic that her no-nonsense sister, who was equally intolerant of hypocrisy, found refreshing. Becky's incapacity for subtlety was sometimes discomfiting, but it also meant that she cut to the heart of a matter with incisive clarity, which was another trait her sister valued. It was difficult for Elsie to explain to others, not that she'd had many opportunities to do so, that Becky was impaired, not unintelligent. Few outsiders were capable of making this distinction.

On other occasions, Elsie had stayed for two or three days so as to make the journey worthwhile. They would have only the day today, but they would make the most of it. Sometimes it was hard to convince Becky to abandon her routine, but her older sister was persuasive. And Becky did love to walk on the beach and also to get a dish of ice cream at a place on the waterfront when it was in season. Indeed, Becky's exacting memory for small pleasures meant that Elsie had had a time of it explaining to Becky why the ice cream wasn't available _out_ of season. They were simple diversions, but novel enough to Becky, for the residents seldom left the grounds of the residence unless in the company of their relatives. So a simple day it might be, but that did not mean it would not be enjoyable. Anticipating a pleasant reunion and looking forward to exchanging news with her sister, Elsie turned up the drive that led to the tall wrought-iron gates of St. John's House and Refuge for the Mentally Deficient - St. John's House, for short - with a light heart.

Not all best laid plans went awry, but these ones soon did and in a way that reminded Elsie painfully of why she was so reluctant to come here and made her wish she hadn't.

 **Elsie's Side of the Story**

She had told Charlie only half the story. Admittedly it was the only part about which he'd asked, but then, how could he know there was more to it? She'd been uneasy with the fact that she wasn't completely honest with him. But it had been enough of a wrench to tell him about Becky.

Her reluctance with him had arisen from fear. She'd been worried that he would reject Becky, be repulsed by her, and that perhaps their own relationship might be damaged as a result. It wouldn't have been the first time attitudes toward her sister had influenced how people saw Elsie Hughes.

But there was something else, too, and it wasn't that he would not understand, but that she was ashamed to let him see it.

Elsie Hughes had spent a lifetime making something of herself. Making a living, in some way, was a necessity for a single woman. But it was for her also a route to self-assertion that distanced her from her family and from Becky, and gained her an identity as something more than the sister or caretaker of an idiot. _(Idiot_. How she hated that word, and yet there it was in the government regulations, and the Royal Commission, and on the lips of anyone else who noticed. ***** ) She had become someone in her own right - the housekeeper of Downton Abbey. It was a position of authority and respect. Within her own jurisdiction, she reigned supreme. It took a lot of work and the application of her very sharp mind and a great deal of patience and perseverance to gain that position. It was an achievement and she was proud of it.

That pride - not really pride, more self-satisfaction, sense of self-worth even - had given her a moment's qualm in marrying Mr. Carson, for marriage meant that she would become Mrs. Carson, and that Mrs. Hughes, the person who she had worked so hard to establish, would disappear. She'd put aside that apprehension, as secondary to the joy of the relationship she would have with him. But it was a choice of her own making and her fears had not, in any case, materialized.

That identity and all that went with it _did_ disappear when she went to Lytham St. Anne's. She did not like the person she became there, not least because doing so was not her choice. And she wanted no one - not Her Ladyship, certainly not Mr. Carson - to see her like that. She had spent far too long becoming the Mrs. Hughes they knew, the Mrs. Hughes she wanted to be, to think otherwise.

St. John's House was a private residence for adults who were "not quite right in the head," and it was a good one. In fact, it was the best one that Elsie could find. It was run by an Order of Roman Catholic nuns, the Sisters of Good Works, and it offered exemplary care. ****** Elsie was not given, as her husband sometimes was, to disparaging comments about other churches. If she were, she might have indulged in a few sharp critiques of _his_ faith, the Church of England, which, to her firmly Presbyterian mind, had its own fairly earned reputation for pomposity and materialism. But had she a more critical eye it would still have been difficult to find much fault with St. John's House. It was orderly, clean, and well-managed. The staff - all Sisters - treated the residents with courtesy, patience, and consideration, so far as she could tell. And because they took no salary - their material needs attended to by the Order itself - it operated on a cost basis. The high fees charged of the residents assured an equally high level of comfort. It struck Elsie as something like a convalescent home, such as Downton Abbey had been during the War, except the war never ended here and no one got better and went home.

When she went to Lytham St. Anne's, she was no longer Mrs. Hughes, the housekeeper of Downton Abbey and a force to be reckoned with. She became Miss Hughes, an ordinary person with no authority or standing. She came to St. John's House only as the blood relative of one of the residents. And this meant next to nothing, apparently, beyond the obligation to pay the monthly bill for her sister's upkeep. In other circumstances such a sizable financial outlay in fees might have secured her a voice in those matters that touched on her sister, but oddly it seemed to work against her here. The House administrators countered with the assertion that their careful control and supervision were precisely what she and other families were paying for. The 'good of the many' trumped any claim on the basis of fees paid. This meant that she had no say in any aspect of Becky's life except the decision to keep her there or take her away. Rules and regulations were to be adhered to strictly. And though no one had ever put it to her so bluntly, Elsie understood that she had no recourse but to observe them. She might otherwise be invited to withdraw Becky and obliged to place her in a lesser institution or to care for her herself, with the attendant complications. In seeking out the best care for her sister, Elsie had necessarily abdicated all authority over her.

This had proven irksome on previous visits. She came a good distance to see her sister and sacrificed much to do so, in terms of the cost of travel and accommodation, only to be hemmed in by the different rules about when she might visit, how long she might take Becky out, what gifts she might bring. But this time it was worse still. She had, as always, scrupulously followed the rules - writing in advance to announce her visit, allowing plenty of opportunity for the House to process this. She received confirmation by letter and brought this with her, as a formality more than anything else, not expecting to be denied.

And then she _was_ denied. They were very sorry, of course, but the disruption caused by the death of a resident had disturbed them all, as changes to a strict routine always did. All visits had therefore been suspended until further notice.

"But I've come a long way," Elsie protested. "And I made the proper arrangements." And why she could not herself comfort her sister if, indeed, Becky were even upset, was beyond her. But no, they had to think about all the residents in their care and could not make an exception. And she was turned away. It was the ultimate statement of her loss of control over Becky, over the single family responsibility left to her. And she could do nothing about it.

The experience left her feeling diminished and humiliated. She was only grateful that she had resisted Mr. Carson's overtures to come with her. It would have been humbling enough for him to confront the imperfections of her family and she was still not convinced, despite his protestations otherwise, that he would be able to deal with Becky with equanimity. But for him to witness his wife, who he was accustomed to seeing treated with respect, so casually dismissed...

No, she never wanted him, or anyone else, to see how she was reduced to submission in this way. It was demeaning.

The almost-exhilaration she had felt at how easily her reunion with Becky had been engineered and the eager anticipation she had felt at the prospect of seeing her sister again evaporated in an instant, and she was plunged into an uncharacteristic and uncomfortable state of despondency. She was not unfamiliar with the sense of frustration she met here. Any member of the lower classes in a hierarchically-structured society such as that which prevailed in England knew the futility of flailing against authority. But Elsie rather thought that there were sorrows and deprivations enough in the lives of people like Becky and their families without adding this kind of burden to it, too. They knew so few of the conventional rewards of life. Was it too much to ask that they might enjoy their meagre indulgences whenever the opportunity arose? It was so deflating.

 **Her Ladyship Intervenes**

Her Ladyship breezed into her room at the end of the afternoon all aglow with the excitement of her day. She had lived in England for more than thirty-five years, but she had never lost the exuberance of her American origins. Mrs. Hughes, whose national roots encouraged a more staid demeanour, did not dislike this about Her Ladyship, although she could never have embraced it herself. This afternoon she was even grateful for it, as it provided a shield behind which she might conceal her own disquiet.

Such was Her Ladyship's mood, however, that eventually her effervescence overflowed even in the direction of her lady's maid.

"How was your day, Mrs. Hughes?" Cora asked breathlessly as she gave herself over to be made up for the evening.

The housekeeper responded with her professional smile. "It was fine, my lady." It was a fundamental understanding of service that upstairs were not interested in downstairs affairs, even if they did ask about them. The correct response was polite vagueness.

"And your sister?"

"As ever." It was not really a lie. They had told her as much at St. John's House, even if she had not seen it for herself. She continued to lay out Her Ladyship's clothes. But she was moving in a fog because she _was_ distracted and had been more deeply affected by the day's disappointments than even she knew.

Cora noticed. She had been absorbed in the developments of her own day and _had_ asked the questions in a perfunctory way. But even in the housekeeper's few words she sensed that something was wrong.

The two women had a curious relationship. They had worked closely together for twenty-five years and yet the lady of the house knew next to nothing about the housekeeper. In theory there was that 'great divide' between family and staff, and an outsider like herself might well have assumed that it was an impenetrable one. But the reality was much more complex. Robert not only worked with Carson but knew him well on a personal level. The formality of class distinctions kept them from speaking of each other as friends, but they _were_ friends, in every meaningful way in which Cora understood the term. The same was true of Mary and Anna. And then there was Mary and Carson, a whole other dynamic, but a deeply personal one as well.

Of course, Cora had her lady's maids. She'd thought there'd been a mutual affection with O'Brien and only very belatedly discovered she'd misled herself there. She believed she had a warmer relationship with Baxter, though it was still developing, and the social disparity between them was so apparent that it was likely to be a limited one. But she had known Mrs. Hughes for thirty years. They were both outsiders and that ought to have worked in their favour. Cora believed that she had made more of an effort. It was, she thought, Mrs. Hughes who kept her distance. Cora had a nuanced enough understanding of human nature to appreciate that there might be perfectly sound reasons for this.

There had only been one potential breach in the wall between them and it had not lasted long. That was when Mrs. Hughes had that health scare and Cora had reached out to her. The woman had been moved. But then the crisis did not materialize and the fissure of feeling closed up again as if it had never existed. The wedding of Downton's butler and housekeeper provided another opportunity for cross-class interaction, but old patterns persisted. Within the family there was a fuss over Carson, largely by Robert and Mary, but Cora had not thought it appropriate to intrude on Mrs. Hughes in the same way. Mary had said, "Carson is ours, Mrs. Hughes is theirs," a blunt and almost callous assessment, if also an accurate one. There were barriers there, for whatever reason, and perhaps they could not be overcome.

In this moment, however, Cora sensed another...if not exactly opportunity, then...vulnerability. She herself had had a wonderful day, wherein she had found her perspectives and suggestions on the proposed health care reforms well received, and she was buoyed up by that. And they were away from Downton, away from the usual restraints on behaviour that characterized day-to-day relationships. And Mrs. Hughes did seem perturbed.

"You don't seem quite yourself," she observed mildly.

"I'm sorry, my lady." Mrs. Hughes was irked with herself for letting anything show. "It's nothing to trouble you with." It was the servant's apology, sidestepping the issue of the trouble itself, and apologizing for burdening the mistress with it.

But Cora would have none of it. Instead of cooperating with Mrs. Hughes's efforts to take her jacket, she turned instead to face the other woman. "But you _are_ troubled." She paused, waiting, and then, when Mrs. Hughes said nothing, went on in a kindly tone. "I can't advise on sisters. I only have a brother, although he was trouble enough. But I have seen sisters in action in my own house."

She was trying to be nice and Mrs. Hughes could see that and appreciate it, for what it was worth. "My sister is a bit of a challenge," she said, trying to affect a light air, as if her sister might be difficult in the same way anyone else's was, "but she's not the problem."

"Dear Mrs. Hughes, I won't put you on the spot, but if there's anything I can do..."

"There's nothing you can do." Mrs. Hughes spoke sharply, taking a tone she knew was inappropriate with Her Ladyship, but the words spilled from her as a reflex. That was it, wasn't it? There was _nothing_ anyone could do. Still, that was no reason for rudeness. "There's nothing anyone can do, my lady," she said more softly. "It just _is_." Resignation edged out all other emotions.

Cora smiled almost apologetically. "I tend to think otherwise," she said. "His Lordship says it's because I'm an American. But sometimes just talking about a problem, sharing a burden, can make it easier to bear."

Mrs. Hughes knew that was not so, not when it came to this kind of a burden. "Thank you, my lady. But...no." And yet there was almost a trembling in her voice. Why did she find it so hard to maintain the dispassionate countenance that she displayed day-in day-out at Downton Abbey? She turned away. "You'll be late, my lady."

"My engagement can wait," Cora said, with a quiet firmness. "Did you argue with your sister?" She knew she was pressing boundaries here and that Mrs. Hughes would be well within her rights to say so. But Mrs. Hughes _was_ remarkable for her imperturbable demeanour and she was clearly shaken by something. It would have been callous to pretend nothing had happened. She felt it necessary at least to provide the opportunity for Mrs. Hughes to unburden herself.

Mrs. Hughes did not want to get into this, certainly not with Her Ladyship, and then found herself blurting, "I didn't see my sister."

Cora waited. It was tempting to fill the silence with a meaningless, "oh, well," but she held her tongue, sensing there was more here than a sisterly spat.

It took a lot to crack Mrs. Hughes's resolve. She was a woman of steely resolve, especially in matters concerning her sister. But Becky was, paradoxically, both the reason for her emotional armor and her Achilles' heel as well. Her relationship with her sister was perhaps too important, too intimate, to be walled away from the rest of her life. Perhaps that was only what Mr. Carson had been telling her as he chipped away at the barriers, making her vulnerable. The emotional baggage she had long carried regarding Becky - leaving her parents, and then her mother, alone to cope while she made her own life; dividing her life between career and care for Becky when she assumed responsibility - had been compounded of late by her own happiness with Mr. Carson. And had contributed to her reluctance to slip again into this world where sorrow and pride and guilt all mingled.

The silence between them lingered, but it wasn't such an uncomfortable one. How it might be resolved was a matter for her to decide. She could put Her Ladyship off once more and that, she suspected, would be the end of it. Or...she could gather all her courage about her and bring Becky into the open. She took a deep breath and then turned to face Her Ladyship. This was not something that ought to be done in the shadows or in shame.

"My sister lives in a...residence...here in Lytham St. Anne's. When I went to see her today, they wouldn't admit me."

She spoke flatly. Confession, she had heard Catholics say, was good for the soul. Mrs. Hughes couldn't see how talking to a man through a mesh screen in a dark box helped anything, but to each his own. For her it was not a soul-cleansing experience, but a defeat, a concession to weakness. She had let the morning's episode beat her down to the point of exposing her personal concerns to Her Ladyship and then encumbering her with them. Well, so be it.

"This residence..."

"St. John's House," Mrs. Hughes supplied. Did it really matter now?

"It's some kind of an institution?"

"Yes." Mrs. Hughes waited for the questions about Becky, about what was wrong with her, about what kind of deficiencies she had. She steeled herself to bear such queries as she always had, with a diffidence that belied the impact of the wounds caused by the curiosity and insensitivity of others.

"And they wouldn't let you in. Is that unusual?"

Her Ladyship seemed puzzled by this. And Mrs. Hughes was puzzled by the direction of Her Ladyship's interest.

"Well, it's never happened before. But there were special circumstances, unanticipated circumstances - the death of a ...resident. They...it's run by the Sisters of Good Works...felt it might be upsetting to the others to have a stranger about until they get things back to normal. They didn't want any more disruptions." She had not herself accepted this explanation, had challenged it when she heard it, but was now conveying it in earnest to Her Ladyship, as if trying to convince herself of its rightness by persuading another.

Cora was not persuaded. "But...you're not a stranger," she said emphatically. "I may be speaking out of line here, Mrs. Hughes, but I'd think your sister would be more soothed than aggravated by your presence."

"I thought so, too," Mrs. Hughes said, almost a little relieved to have her feelings validated this way. "But that wasn't their view."

Her Ladyship was frowning, but Mrs. Hughes could tell that it was the situation about which she was aggravated. To her surprise, Mrs. Hughes found this encouraging. She'd had a wretched day, overcome with feelings of inadequacy and frustration. And in this moment she felt not quite so alone.

"I hope you won't think I'm prying, Mrs. Hughes," Cora said carefully, "but if I knew more of the story, the bigger picture, I might be more useful."

Well, there was comfort and then there was amelioration, and Mrs. Hughes had little faith that much could be done about the latter, no matter what Her Ladyship knew. She hesitated. It was so hard to confide. There was no taking it back once they were on the other side. Such a confidence would not have an impact on their professional relationship, but... But so what? She had never especially valued the personal opinions of the family anyway. Mr. Carson cared, but she didn't.

So she told Her Ladyship the story. That her sister was mentally deficient. That since their mother had died, she had paid for her sister to be cared for at St. John's House in Lytham St. Anne's. That it was a very good place and that she had no complaints about the care. She said more than she'd ever said to anyone, except Mr. Carson and, as with him, she told only the one side of the story, only the side that concerned Becky. But they were not standing here talking about it because of Becky. In fact, it was the other half of the story that seemed to engage her listener.

"I imagine you pay quite a bit for this care," Her Ladyship said, at the end of her recital. Once more she side-stepped questions about Becky herself. "I would think that would entitle you to some consideration."

Mrs. Hughes shrugged. "They make the decisions, my lady, and I can hardly challenge them on what is or is not in the best interests of the community at large."

"But you only want to see your sister," Cora persisted, her evident frustration a mirror to that which Mrs. Hughes felt.

"Well, it's not the end of the world. I'll come back another time." It was not at all what she wanted to do, but she could nothing else. And it was never her habit to flail against the odds.

"But this isn't fair. Or right."

That was the point, wasn't it? the point with which Mrs. Hughes herself had struggled all day, which she struggled with every time she came here and found herself buffeted about by someone else's regulations. "I'm not sure fairness has much to do with it, my lady," she said soberly.

Her Ladyship took a deep breath. "I agree with you there, Mrs. Hughes. And that's the problem. But I'm not convinced it's a hopeless case." She gathered her thoughts and then looked at the housekeeper with an air of determination. "May I make some inquiries on your behalf?"

"With whom?" Mrs. Hughes was immediately suspicious. She certainly didn't want Her Ladyship banging on the doors of St. John's House, demanding to be admitted.

"I'm in Lytham St. Anne's to consult with the health care establishment," Cora explained. "I can ask some questions of the local authorities."

A swooping sense of alarm swept over Mrs. Hughes. "I appreciate your interest, my lady. I do. But...this is a delicate situation. I don't want to make a fuss in case..."

Her Ladyship nodded. "In case there are repercussions for your sister. I understand." For a moment, frustration claimed her again. "You said St. John's House is run by an Order of Catholic nuns."

"Yes. The Sisters of Good Works. And it's a fine place, my lady. I wouldn't want you or anyone else to think otherwise." She was agitated now, worried that she had stirred up a hornet's nest, and like everything else in this situation, it was something well beyond her control.

Her Ladyship's expression was a solemn one. "I understand that, Mrs. Hughes. I also understand the need for absolute discretion because of your sister's vulnerability, and that must be the most important consideration. Believe me, I do see this."

Although she was not accustomed to trusting anyone when it came to Becky, Mrs. Hughes nevertheless felt reassured by Her Ladyship's words. Her jangling nerves quieted a little.

"The thing is," Cora went on, "this situation is unconscionable, from the perspectives of both you and your sister. St. John's House is providing a service, caring for your sister, and you are paying a goodly sum to have them do so. And yet you have no say in fundamental elements of your sister's care, even when it comes to such a simple and important aspect as visiting her. I'm assuming," she broke off, glancing at Mrs. Hughes, "that you gave them notice of your visit and received confirmation?"

"I did." Mrs. Hughes spoke almost faintly. Her Ladyship was only voicing what she herself felt, but without the dispiritedness of defeat.

"Yes, well, it's an example of how private institutions operate, isn't it?" Cora snapped, and Elsie understood the sudden outburst of anger to be directed at an external foe. "Outside of arm's length oversight they can do pretty much what they like, as if they were separate little kingdoms." Abruptly, Cora shook her head, as if shaking off the indignation she felt. Her expression softened again. "But that's not a problem we can solve between us here and now. The problem here is how to secure the visit with your sister that you came here to make. And," an almost mischievous light appeared in her eyes, "I think I have an idea, a different way to approach this, and it won't have any ill effects whatsoever, for your sister, yourself, or St. John's House. Will you trust me, Mrs. Hughes?"

She made a winning appeal and it swayed Mrs. Hughes. There was an inspiring confidence about Her Ladyship that she had not seen before. "I would like to see my sister," she said, grudgingly allowing herself to fall under the spell.

Cora was seized with a burst of enthusiasm. "I'll let you know what's come of it when I return from dinner. I won't make any promises, but I think you may well get to see your sister tomorrow."

"Aren't we leaving in the morning, my lady?" There was that practical consideration with which to contend.

Her Ladyship shrugged. "Oh, we'll just take a later train. We can change our plans in the morning."

 ***A/N1.** The major legislation regarding this part of the population included the 1886 _Idiots Act_ and the 1913 _Mental Deficiency Act_ , both of which divided persons with mental deficiencies into categories including idiots, imbeciles, feeble-minded, and moral defectives. The _Royal Commission on the Care and Control of the Feeble-Minded_ , established in 1904 and reporting in 1908, addressed how to deal with those people termed idiots and imbeciles. Some of its directives were acted upon in the 1913 Act.

 ****A/N2.** The Sisters of Good Works are a fictional Order created for this work and reflect no real organization


	3. Chapter 3: A Visit Like No Other

**SISTERS**

 **Chapter 3 A Visit Like No Other**

 **Influence**

Her Ladyship had been unable to offer Elsie anything but hope the previous night on her return from dinner. But a note arriving as Elsie was helping Her Ladyship to dress in the morning changed everything.

"This is it, Mrs. Hughes!"

But as they set out for St. John's House at nine o'clock - Her Ladyship was keen to walk there and have a look at the attractive seaside town - Elsie remained sceptical.

"I still don't understand how a note from a ... high-born woman...will prompt the Sisters to change their minds," she said. She was neither disrespectful of nor ungrateful for Her Ladyship's efforts, but she was not convinced.

"It's not from just _any_ woman," Cora responded. "It's from the Dowager Duchess of Norfolk. To Catholics in England, the Norfolks speak with an authority second only to the Pope. The Duchess was, fortunately, here at the conference. She's looking for ways to become more involved, too," she added, a reflection on her own new directions. "The Duchess thinks St. John's House may well be a recipient of a grant from the Norfolk fortune. She says that if they're still obstinate, then I'm to call her and she will come down and speak to them herself. We're not going home without seeing your sister, Mrs. Hughes," she said fiercely.

"You are kind, my lady," Elsie ventured. It seemed to her that this could all still miscarry and leave her and Becky worse off than before, but...she did want to see her sister.

"I'm not," Cora said abruptly. When Elsie looked at her in surprise, Cora moved to clarify her words. "That is, I hope I _am_ kind. But this isn't about kindness. It's about fairness." There was a peculiar determination in her words. In the cause of local hospital care and then in the wider world of hospital organization generally, Cora Crawley had found a meaningful pursuit that had eluded her for most of her life. Now she had a mission. "This is what's wrong with England," she said heatedly, and then smiled briefly at her companion. "I can say that to _you,_ as you're not English. It's all about the influence of old families or who you went to school with at Eton or Oxford. The nation is run like a bunch of little fiefdoms designed to keep the underclasses in check. The only way to override that is to know someone. In this case, you know me and I know the Dowager Duchess of Norfolk. It's ridiculous and I'm going to help change it." And then she added, "It's not how we do things in America."

Elsie could well believe that.

They approached the gates of St. John's House and rang the bell, and as had happened the day before, in short order a nun came in answer to it. When Her Ladyship inquired politely if they might be admitted, she received the same response.

Her Ladyship then produced the note and passed it through the wrought iron gate. "Could you then, please, deliver this to whomever is in charge? I believe it may make a difference."

The nun clearly did not think so, but she accepted the note and hurried off.

They waited ten minutes. "Fortunately it's a nice day," Her Ladyship remarked.

Elsie wondered at the woman's sunny disposition. She knew Her Ladyship to be of a genial temperament generally, but she did seem especially buoyant here. Proof, Elsie thought drily, that work was good for the soul. There was a little more energy in the nun's step as she hurried down the path to the gate a few minutes later. She unlocked the gates and ushered them inside, informing them that the residence head would see them in her office. Behind her, Her Ladyship rolled her eyes.

Still Elsie was cautious enough not to believe just yet. But it unfolded as Her Ladyship had anticipated, and Elsie had to admit that the diagnosis was irritatingly familiar. All things seemed possible in the presence of Lady Grantham armed with a note from the Dowager Duchess of Norfolk. It was agreed that Her Ladyship would enjoy a guided tour of St. John's House while Mrs. Carson - as she was known here now - visited with her sister. Cora Crawley was gracious in victory, but Elsie could see that she was unimpressed with this deference to authority, even as she used it to get what she wanted.

It irked Elsie, too. The staff of St. John's House had treated her carelessly because they could. She had no doubt that they did think a no-visitor policy appropriate in a moment of upset, so it was not wholly arbitrary, but how easily they set aside such concerns when a different kind of pressure was brought to bear!

"If you'd like to wait in here, Your Ladyship. Sister Angela will be with you in a moment."

Elsie noticed that she, somehow, had become invisible. Her Ladyship noticed it, too, and made another face.

 **Reunion**

They were shown into a large, sunny room on the first floor. Elsie had been in it before. It was a workroom where several of the higher-functioning residents performed basic tasks for local businesses. It kept them occupied and gave them a sense that they were contributing. There was now only one woman in the room. Elsie was certain that the others had been hurriedly removed because of the visit. They ought properly to have brought Becky to a smaller room, but she would have been agitated by the disruption and Her Ladyship might have looked on disapprovingly. So the others disrupted were instead.

The lone occupant was Becky Hughes. She sat beside one of the long windows and between two baskets. One contained great skeins of wool, the other several smaller balls of the same wool. It was Becky's job to reduce the larger units produced by the mill to balls of wool appropriate in size for sale in a local shop.

Cora became very still as her eyes fell on the Becky. This was a moment for Mrs. Hughes and her sister and she was an intruder here. She tried to remain unobtrusive. Cora would not have identified her on a street as Mrs. Hughes's sister, but in this context, the resemblance was clear. Becky, the younger of the two, looked older and was heavier than Mrs. Hughes. She slumped a little, a contrast to her sister's ever-erect posture. But they had the same eyes. Cora saw the alert, sparkling blue eyes fixed on the work before them. And they had the same hands, although Becky's moved with an almost awkward deliberation, where Mrs. Hughes's were always quick and adept. Yet a similar work ethic was also apparent - Becky Hughes rolled wool with determination and precision, and concentrated on the task to the exclusion of all else.

Cora watched Mrs. Hughes.

Elsie smiled when her eyes lit on her sister. In her gaze, love, pleasure and relief mixed freely. She walked across the room, boldly but not quickly. Becky did not look up or even appear to notice her presence. Elsie set down her purse and bag and stood in front of her sister.

"Hello, Becky," she said. "I've come for a visit, love."

There was a sweetness and lightness to her voice that Cora had never heard in her matter-of-fact housekeeper. The closest Mrs. Hughes had ever come to this before in her presence was when she had spoken her wedding vows to Carson. But her tone was more gentle here. And then she did lean over, putting a hand on her sister's shoulder and kissing the top of her head.

Becky did not look up from the ball of wool she was rolling. "Do you have chocolates? You always bring chocolates."

Cora didn't know what she had expected, but Becky Hughes spoke with a voice very much like her sister's, right down to the Scottish inflection. As for the words themselves, they brought a smile to Cora's face.

"I do," Elsie said, and sounded more like her everyday self again, though she smiled fondly at her sister.

Becky smiled then, too, and still did not look up. Elsie waited. Only when she had finished the ball and put it carefully in the right basket did Becky look up and really acknowledge her sister.

"You have a new dress." And she reached out and ran her hand down her sister's thigh. "It's blue."

It _was_ a new dress. Elsie had asked, and Her Ladyship had agreed, rather enthusiastically, that she might wear something other than her black day dress to visit her sister.

"We're away from Downton, Mrs. Hughes. We can break all the rules!"

Elsie wasn't prepared to take Her Ladyship at her word on that, but had put on the cornflower blue dress that matched her eyes and made her look younger. She had gotten it on her honeymoon in Scarborough, another of her husband's too many indulgences. But she was glad enough to be wearing it here. Everything about St. John's House was dull, if tidy, and her dress brightened things up a bit.

"Blue like your eyes," Becky said.

"And yours."

They grinned at each other.

Observing them, Cora was charmed. It was a whole new perspective on her efficient and unflappable housekeeper. This was only to be expected. Did not she, Cora, behave differently around her brother? Siblings had an exclusive bond, cultivated by the unique experience of growing up together. Mrs. Hughes's dress, bright and more stylish than everything else she had, was a contrast to the functional, steel blue dress her sister wore, which struck Cora as closer to prison garb than anything else. She wondered at the lack of imagination that had gone into it.

Undistracted by her work now, Becky allowed her sister to hug and kiss her, and even smiled - almost a little smugly - in response, as though she were indulging her.

"I have lots of work to do," she said, as Elsie pulled up another chair and sat down before her.

"Well, you can put it aside for a while. You always do when I visit."

Becky's shoulders heaved. "I'll have a lot more to do tomorrow."

Cora wondered if and when Becky would notice her, but before that happened, a nun came in and quietly invited her to withdraw. She was interested in touring the house. She had never been in a place like it. But she reluctantly left the sisters behind. That was a new world, too.

 **Sisters**

Elsie had not been inhibited by Her Ladyship. By this point she had nothing to hide. But she was not unhappy to see her leave. It was nice to be alone, just the two of them. She picked up the bag she had brought and went through it, extracting a hairbrush and a small box tied up with a ribbon.

Becky's eyes brightened at the sight of the box. "Chocolates," she said. "Are they _my_ chocolates?" she asked a little warily.

"Yes," Elsie said, handing her the box. "I got them from the same shop in Downton Village that I always go to. They're exactly the ones you like."

Reassured, Becky smoothly undid the ribbon and tossed it aside. Elsie picked it up and put it back into her bag. Becky lifted the box top to reveal four chocolates, individually wrapped in red paper. She took one out, put the top back on, and then ate the candy.

The chocolates were a pricy little indulgence, but there was so very little that she could give Becky. "I brought you a new brush, too."

Becky glanced at it. "I don't like the colour," she said, of the dark-hued handle.

Elsie made an impatient noise. "It serves its purpose no matter what colour it is. Now, let me brush your hair."

Becky could brush her own hair, although she did not do it very effectively. Perhaps she could have done a better job of it, but she was both self-conscious of her frumpy appearance and yet disinclined to do anything about it. Elsie knew Becky would feel better if she looked better, and so always took care over her hair when she visited. But that wasn't the only reason. Brushing Becky's hair was something she had done long ago. It took them both back and they enjoyed that.

"Now, tell me all your news," Elsie said, drawing the brush through her sister's hair. "And then I'll tell you mine."

Becky had a lot to say, which might have surprised someone else, but not her sister. It wasn't very exciting - how many skeins of wool she processed in a day, that she'd seen a deer out the window a few days earlier, that they'd had strawberries at lunch last week - but Elsie listened avidly because this was her sister's life and she was interested in it. And, if truth be told, when was the last time anyone had anything to say that was really important? Lives were filled with mundane detail. It was the relationship that framed the information that made it significant.

When Elsie asked if Becky was troubled by the death that had occurred, Becky gave her a blunt and clear-eyed account of the woman Judith's dramatic collapse during dinner, and the fact that they had taken her away never to be seen again. And then, remembering something else, she launched into a much more animated account of how there had been bats in the attic a fortnight ago and she had helped to capture them by holding a corner of the net. Some of the others, including a few of the nuns, had been afraid, but Becky was not. She was proud of this.

This, too, took Elsie back. They had had bats on the farm occasionally, so they were used to them. She was almost amused by Becky's equanimity about the death, as this only validated her own impatience with the excuse given as a reason to deny her visit.

When Elsie tried to relate her own news, Becky kept talking over her. Elsie insisted and Becky, who had been even-tempered to this point, grew angry. Her sister was used to this and had, as well, a well-developed capacity for remaining unperturbed in the face of agitation. She had managed maids for years, after all.

"It's _my_ turn," she said firmly. "And I want to tell you about my husband, Mr. Carson. Charlie. I've got a photograph go show you."

That arrested Becky's eruption before it had gotten into full-blown mode. She loved photographs. Elsie always brought a few, the old family shots of Mam and Da, and the two girls when they were young, and one of the old farm. They were reminders to Becky of who she was. Elsie put these aside and drew out the one of her and Charlie, taken in Scarborough. Elsie loved the picture. There was Charlie in his grey suit, not his butler's livery, his hair tousled, not slicked back. It was the man, Charlie Carson, and his wife Elsie Carson, not the butler and housekeeper of Downton Abbey. He was smiling, laughing actually. She'd had a time getting him to take it seriously. In consequence, he looked as though he were having the time of his life and she as if she'd just swallowed some cod liver oil. He laughed every time he looked at the photograph.

She explained about her and Charlie. She'd written Becky a letter telling her about Charlie, but now she could explain more fulsomely. She tried hard to find things about him that would interest and amuse Becky, even if they might shock her husband.

"He snores!" she declared dramatically. "I can hardly sleep sometimes!"

Becky laughed.

"He won't call me Elsie when we're at work, even though I'm his wife!"

"Does he kiss you like Da did Mam?"

Becky had never known firsthand the love of a man. She had been carefully sheltered by their parents and had spent years now in this almost wholly female environment. But she had a good memory. A few times they had unintentionally seen their parents - not being intimate, but entwined and kissing more amorously than they would have done in public. Neither sister had ever said anything to their parents. It was their secret.

Elsie smiled at this and then nodded. "Yes," she said. "He does." And she blushed despite herself, thinking of her intimate life with her loving husband. For a long time she had thought that had passed her by. She was so grateful, now, that it had not.

Becky, who was observant, caught her blush and laughed out loud, making Elsie laugh, too.

 **A Bit of a Holiday**

It was close to noon when Her Ladyship returned. Elsie thought it must have been an exhausting tour to have lasted all morning. Had they taken her through the attics and the chicken coops? She stood up reluctantly. It was a shorter visit than she usually had with Becky, but she'd known that from the beginning. Before she could begin her goodbyes, however, Her Ladyship came across the room.

"May I meet your sister, Mrs. Hughes?"

"She is Mrs. _Carson_ ," Becky corrected her bluntly, giving Her Ladyship a disapproving look.

"Becky!" Elsie reproached herself for not having thought to coach her sister on proper social conventions, especially in regard to deference to the higher classes. She turned apologetically to the newcomer. "Yes, my lady. This is my sister, Becky Hughes. Becky, this is _Her Ladyship_ , the _Countess of Grantham_. You will recall that I work for her."

"How do you do?" Cora said graciously.

"Her Ladysmith?"

Elsie started to correct her, but Her Ladyship intervened. "Those are my titles, really. My _name_ is Cora."

This announcement almost felled Elsie, who was stunned by Her Ladyship's casualness.

"That's a funny name," Becky said. "I don't like it."

Elsie was horrified. "Becky! Have you no manners at all!"

"I didn't like it much either, when I was a child," Cora said, responding directly to Becky. "My mother chose it."

"Is she nice?" Becky asked bluntly.

Cora shrugged a little. "Sometimes."

"I liked my mother," Becky declared. "She's dead."

"That is _quite_ enough, Becky," Elsie interjected vigorously. "Her Ladyship is _not_ interested." Even as she rebuked her sister, however, Elsie was puzzling over Her Ladyship's behaviour. Cora Crawley spoke quite normally in addressing Becky. The staff at St. John's House always spoke normally to the residents, as did Elsie herself, but outsiders, or people unfamiliar with the impaired rarely did. Her Ladyship also responded to Becky and met her eye, again something that Elsie had rarely seen.

"May I see your work?" Cora asked, reaching for a ball of wool.

Becky screamed, startling the other two women. "Don't touch! Don't touch!"

Cora drew back abruptly and again Elsie was shocked by her sister's behaviour, both in general and because it was directed at Her Ladyship, who had probably never been spoken to this way in her life. But Her Ladyship was unfazed.

"That was my fault," she said quickly. "I apologize, Becky." And then she did turn to Elsie. "Sister Angela said that you sometimes go into town on your visits, Mrs. Hu...er...Carson." She nodded to Becky at that. "I was wondering if we could go for lunch and then take a walk on the beach."

It took Elsie a moment to realize that Her Ladyship's invitation was an inclusive one, but Becky had brightened up right away.

"I like the beach!" she cried. "Let's go to the beach."

"Don't we have to get back to Downton, my lady?"

Cora shrugged. "We'll be back today and if I'm not in time to dress for dinner, the world won't end. I told His Lordship to expect us when he sees us."

Elsie felt as though she had stepped through the looking glass. Her Ladyship seemed a different person outside the environs of Downton Abbey. "I have no objection, my lady..."

So they went. As they walked down the drive, Elsie held out her hand and Becky took it, a sisterly gesture more than anything else. When Becky extended her other hand, Her Ladyship happily took it before Elsie could intervene. They went to a café on the waterfront where Elsie often took her sister. But not everything went smoothly.

Becky insisted on ordering a fish dish.

"You don't like fish," Elsie told her peremptorily. "Have the sausage."

Becky insisted over and over. This only exasperated her sister, who tried to reason with her, to no avail. To avoid a confrontation, Elsie gave in. She apologized to Her Ladyship for the fuss, but Cora blithely waved away her concern.

When the food came, Becky pushed it away.

"I don't like this."

"I told you you wouldn't," Elsie said impatiently. "But you can eat it now or go hungry."

Cora laughed at this, drawing a disapproving look from her housekeeper. "I'm sorry, Mrs... Carson. But you remind me of a big sister I know."

Elsie knew that Her Ladyship did not have a sister, which meant probably that this was a comparison to Lady Mary, not an allusion likely to find favour with Elsie Carson. They sorted the food and managed to get through the meal without much more conflict. Afterwards they went walking on the beach, where Her Ladyship took off her shoes and stockings, and Becky did, too, and the two of them ran laughing across the sand, getting splashed by the waves.

Elsie enjoyed the beach. It was evocative of her honeymoon in Scarborough and before that of that moment she had with Charlie in Brighton when they were only tentatively beginning to appreciate each other, but she did not think she and he were ever as uninhibited as this giggling, screaming pair. She did not know quite how to respond to either of them.

"My lady, aren't you worried someone from the conference will see you?" An appeal to propriety, in the face of a distinct absence of it, was usually enough to bring a well-behaved aristocrat to heel. After all, the Dowager Duchess of Norfolk was apparently in town.

"No," Cora said airily. "And what if they did? Being an American covers a multitude of sins, Mrs. ...Carson. And I haven't had a day at the beach like this since..." She paused, neglected to take appropriate precautions, and caught the spray of an incoming wave. Becky, who had scrambled out of the way, laughed uproariously, and Her Ladyship joined in. "Well, I can't remember when."

Without social restraints to keep them in order, Elsie took another tack, admonishing Becky not to get her dress wet. But Her Ladyship was blasé about it.

"They have a dozen extra just like it," she said.

Elsie could not be so casual, either about the attitudes of the nuns when they returned in such a disordered state or about it being just another dress, not when she knew what it took to wash a garment. Becky diverted her.

"I want to go home now."

Knowing that it was futile to argue with her sister when she declared herself so firmly, she turned apologetically again to Her Ladyship. "I think we must return, my lady."

But Her Ladyship offered no objections and happily took up Becky's offered hand to walk back to the house, both of them dripping a little on the way. Inside the front door, Her Ladyship turned to Becky and took one of both of her hands in her own.

"It was such a pleasure to meet you," she said. Then she declined to escort them any further, leaving Elsie to say goodbye to Becky alone.

It hadn't been quite the visit Elsie had anticipated. In fact it had been a departure from the usual experience in every way, not least in terms of Her Ladyship's kindnesses. But things had only been different, not bad, and though it was an abbreviated interlude with her sister, Elsie thought she might have to count it among the better ones.

Becky's crankiness on the beach had dissipated, but she got a little emotional at the thought of her sister's departure, hugging her tightly as she had not when Elsie had arrived.

"Come back," she said, when Elsie moved to the door.

"Soon," Elsie said. "I promise." And she meant it. Barriers had fallen in the past twenty-four hours. She didn't quite know what to make of that yet.

She was aware of a greater attentiveness shown to her by the nun who escorted her back to the main hall. Her Ladyship, and Her Ladyship's friends, had had an impact. They were, even at that moment, fetching Becky a clean, dry dress and Elsie was encouraged to return at the first convenient opportunity.

Her Ladyship was waiting by the door. As they stepped outside again, she turned to Elsie.

"I've called for a car. It will pick us up here." With a conspiratorial look over her shoulder, she leaned in more closely. "I've made all else right. There's nothing to worry about here in terms of the care your sister will have." Then she stood straight again and a great smile took form on her lips. "What a day we've had, Mrs. Carson!"

Elsie, who had much to ponder, only nodded. It was indeed.


	4. Chapter 4: New Perspectives

**SISTERS**

 **Chapter 4 New Perspectives**

 **A Burden Shared**

They arrived at Downton in time for Her Ladyship to change, which was just as well as the Dowager had invited herself to dinner and if anyone showed up in informal attire when she was present, they never heard the end of it.

The Carsons saw each other only briefly before he went upstairs to attend to his duties.

"Did you have a good trip?" he asked cautiously, as aware of her reticence with regard to this subject as he was of the public nature of the downstairs passage.

"I did," she said, and gave him a warm smile to send him on his way.

They ate dinner in the servants' hall and made their way home after it in the chill and darkness of a moonless night. She asked some perfunctory questions about how he had got on without her and felt a wave of tenderness flow over her when he admitted how difficult it had been to sleep without her by his side.

"You've done it all your life," she reminded him. But she was only teasing him and, furthermore, knew exactly what he meant, for she had keenly felt his absence on her night in Lytham St.-Anne's.

"Yes," he said agreeably, "and I never want to do it again."

"Then we are agreed on that," she assured him, tightening her arm around his.

He did not press her on her visit with Becky, still hesitant on this issue with her. She was glad, for tonight anyway. She wanted to think.

When Her Ladyship asked for her the next morning, Elsie did not connect the summons with their sojourn in the seaside town. It was not unusual for the lady of the house and her housekeeper to confer on pertinent matters several times a week. Not all such encounters were arranged in advance.

Elsie had resumed her role at Downton when she put on her ordinary black day dress and fastened the ring of keys to her waist. With this uniform she also resumed her professional mien. When she appeared before Her Ladyship, it was with a solemnity that did not admit of the casual adventure they had had together only the day before.

But Her Ladyship had called the housekeeper to her sitting room for the very purpose of discussing their experience.

"I hope you don't mind, Mrs. Carson..." At Becky's prompting Her Ladyship had begun referring to her by her married name and it now rolled smoothly from her lips. "...I wanted to ask you a few questions about St. John's House. It's just that it's a subject about which I know so little and now I want to know so much more, and you can help me."

"I will if I can, my lady." Elsie did not know what Her Ladyship wanted, but was prepared offer what assistance she could, within reason.

"I imagine you did your research on these sorts of residences. What made you select St. John's for your sister?"

Well, that was straightforward enough. Elsie told her of how she came to hear of the place and how well it compared to similarly-appointed homes that she had visited. She noted the advantage of its relative proximity to Downton. "Of course, it's too far for a half-day, but I was prepared to trade away convenience for quality of care."

Her Ladyship nodded in understanding. "They took me into every crevice of the place," she said. "It really is amazing what a note from the right person can do. And I was favourably impressed for the most part and think you made a sound choice for your sister."

"But you have reservations?" Elsie was interested. Her Ladyship had seen much more than she ever had.

Cora looked a little perplexed. "The essentials were all in order. But it seemed rather...drab to me, Mrs. Carson. The walls were all a dull grey - as if there is any other kind of grey! - or a somewhat unpleasant salmon colour in some rooms. And the residents were all dressed the same, in those grim steel-blue dresses. It's as if there was a deal on that fabric down at the warehouse and only one pattern at the dressmaker's. The quarters where the women sleep were tidy and clean, but there were almost no personal effects about, and no...personal presence. It might as well have been a soldiers' barracks. Not that I've seen many of those! But I found the...regimentation...off-putting."

Elsie could not argue with her on that, for she had thought much the same thing. "I'm sure it has to do with economy mostly, my lady. The food is very good."

"Yes, it is," Cora agreed heartily. "I went through the kitchens and they made me taste the soup!"

"And I think the colour scheme is deliberately dull. Lively colours excite, or so they say...," Elsie could not help but betray her own scepticism of this reasoning, "...and they like to keep everyone calm. And the lack of personal touches is for the same reason. They...discourage gifts...," another practice with which she disagreed, "...so that one resident doesn't have more than another. They think such inequities encourage jealousy and hostility."

Cora's eyes were round with disbelief. "I don't know about you, but that sounds like _communism_ to me! _I_ think that a happy group is more likely to be content than a depressed group. Surely it wouldn't hurt to put up a few pictures and splash a little yellow paint on the walls, or maybe even a brighter shade of pink, if that isn't too revolutionary!" The issue was a serious one, but she tried to temper her criticism with a smile. "It's unfortunate you can't bring your sister any presents, too."

Elsie shrugged. "I take her a few chocolates from Staunton's in the village. She can eat them when we're together and that gets us around _that_ rule." She was glad to have this opportunity to speak to Her Ladyship, because she had something to say as well. "I want to thank you, my lady, for what you did yesterday. I would have been disappointed not to have seen my sister."

"Of course, you would have."

"And I want to thank you for...joining us for lunch and a walk on the beach. You were very good with Becky."

A slight blush coloured Cora's cheeks and her smile widened. "I hope being a mother of three girls has been good training for _something_ ," she said modestly.

But the housekeeper doubted that it had been the lessons of motherhood at work. As she saw it, Her Ladyship's openness and ease were reflections of her character and spirit.

"I enjoyed myself," Cora added enthusiastically. "It was _nice_ to be able to let go for once. _And_ it was refreshing to be with someone who has no expectations, who wasn't bound by all the social conventions of our world. I love my life, Mrs. Carson. I wouldn't want to give you the wrong impression about that. But romping on a beach with your sister was a wonderful moment of escape."

Elsie found herself looking at the Countess of Grantham from a new perspective. Her Ladyship's next words jarred her from this pleasant reverie.

"I asked you here this morning, Mrs. Carson, because I wanted to say two things to you." Her Ladyship still wore a congenial expression, but her tone was more serious.

"I will keep your confidence about your sister not because there is anything shameful about her, but because she is part of your private life and I respect that. I was admitted to this confidence only inadvertently. Knowing about Becky, I appreciate now the extent of the fright you must have had when you thought you were ill, having to worry not only about yourself, but about your sister, too. It must be a relief for you to have Carson now."

This was an astonishing turn in the conversation and Elsie had to scramble to reply. "Mr. Carson is very supportive," she responded, in her understated way. And he was, insofar as she would let him be.

"I would expect nothing less of Carson," Cora said sweetly. She knew what a stalwart figure the butler was in Robert's life. "Too often we bear our burdens in isolation, I think, worried about depending on others or on what they might say. But sometimes it is useful to share these things. I know about your sister now, Mrs. Carson, and that is a good thing. If ever you are in crisis again, or require help of any kind for your sister, whether it has to do with the system that cares for her or your own capacity to do so, you may turn to me. I feel a responsibility for the vulnerable in our society, and acting on that might as well start close to home."

This was generous, but before Elsie could acknowledge it, Her Ladyship went on.

"The other thing I wanted to say is that the Sisters of Charity at St. John's House now know that you have connections to the Countess of Grantham and, through me, to the Norfolks. St. John's _is_ a fine institution - apart from the drabness. I saw that. But it is a closed shop, as so many of these places are. I'm not being critical of the Sisters _per se._ But until the system changes, influence is important. And now they know you have it. It's unfair and I revile it, but that is how it works. You may be assured, Mrs. Carson, that my intervention on your behalf will not have an adverse effect on your sister."

Elsie left Her Ladyship's presence rather overwhelmed. She remained wary of the benevolence of the aristocracy, which she knew to be as arbitrary as the influence they exercised. But Elsie's impulse was to trust to the sincerity of Her Ladyship's words. The evidence was in her actions of the previous day. She _had_ righted the injustice that had denied Elsie access to her sister. And her interaction with Becky had been something to behold. There likely was that element of escapism to which Her Ladyship had alluded, but beneath that surface frivolity, Cora Crawley had revealed a genuine compassion and openness to difference that Elsie had rarely, if ever, encountered where Becky was concerned. And yet Elsie had hesitated to confide in her.

Perhaps, she thought, she ought to take more risks.

 **Sister Antics**

He was already in bed reading when she finished her washing up for the night. She lingered for a moment in the shadows of the passage just outside the bedroom door, considering him.

She hadn't confided in him about Becky. Telling someone a secret when you felt you had no alternative was not a confidence. It was a confession. He had heard her out in confusion - that he had not known such an important thing about her; in compassion - for the burden he then realized she had long borne and its implications for her present and future; and in shame - his own, for pressuring her to do something that was beyond her means. And when he knew all, he deliberated on it carefully and then made sound, practical plans for _their_ future, which he knew would always include Becky. And then he had presented her with those plans, as a _fait accompli_ in that he had registered the house in both of their names, and yet also with a humility that did not assume her consent. He had tried since then to learn her heart where her sister was concerned and to become acquainted with Becky, if only through her eyes. And she, Elsie, had rejected his overtures on both counts. It occurred to her that she might have been wrong to do so.

She climbed into bed beside him pausing to reflect for a moment on how much she enjoyed this aspect of marriage. She cherished his presence in the companionable silence of reading their books together, in conversation about things light or profound or confidential, and in the intimacy of body, as well as heart, mind, and soul, which marriage had opened to them.

He glanced at her with a smile as she moved to his side. He thought she must be tired after a long day, readily acknowledging that even a brief break from routine required a readjustment and that that was a drain. In consequence, he was expecting nothing more than a goodnight kiss and the welcome warmth of her body curled up beside his. She had other plans.

"When I was a girl," she began, taking his arm, "my sister Becky and I slept in separate beds, which was a little unusual on a farm. But my father was a fair carpenter, among his many other skills, and he made me my own bed while Becky was still in her cradle. So later he made one for her, too."

His book lay forgotten in his lap, his eyes transfixed on hers from her first word. He hardly dared move lest he disrupt her tale.

"And almost every night after we got into bed, Becky would come across and get into bed with me. Which I didn't mind. But then she would put her feet up against me...," as she said this, she shifted her own feet until they were firmly placed flat against his hip, "...and would... _push_ me out of my own bed!" And she shoved him, too, as she was saying, giving him a great jolt that took him completely by surprise.

"Ow! Elsie!" He'd hardly moved an inch - she couldn't shift him that easily - although she might have given him a bruise in the process.

She laughed at his shock, and then smiled contritely and pulled him back towards her, giving him a kiss by way of apology. He was easily mollified.

"So I would land on the floor, and pick myself up and go and get into her bed. And wouldn't she then come right after me and do it again!" She shook her head in mock exasperation at the memory. "And only then would she settle down so that we might go to sleep!"

He laughed with her then, and put an arm around her so that she could snuggle more closely to him and perhaps be prevented from repeating her assault.

"Why are you telling me this?" he asked gently, exhilarated by her confidence, but curious as to why she should be making it. This was more than he'd gotten out of her on the subject of Becky in months of trying.

She turned her head against his shoulder that she might look into those wondering eyes that only ever reflected the great love he had for her.

"It's time," she said.

 **THE END**


End file.
